Four

You stop at my corner and I open the door. Don't get out, I tell myself, say it, say it now. I find meager ways to extend the end of our conversation but your responses get smaller and smaller; seven words, six words, five words, four. Silences grow in their awkwardness, they settle in and really come into themselves. Eventually I have to leave, the door open for minutes now. And I get out and walk, shut the door, walk down the block, away from everything. Ten houses down never seemed so far, the moon never was this dim, and if I never turn around you might be watching me the entire time.